Because she also knew that somehow, she held the same power over him.
Flick.
She jumped.
Glanced down to see he’d tugged open the button on her shorts.
Her breath caught at the sight of his hands just below her navel, broad fingers tugging the pull of her zipper down. He spread the fabric, denim worn so often over the years that it had grown soft, that it was thin and fraying.
“Unicorns.”
He smiled, pressed his lips against the fabric of her underwear, bright purple and dotted with dancing unicorns.
It wasn’t sexy or skimpy. But then again, she hadn’t expected to have a man between her thighs that morning.
Her hands slid between them, self-consciousness bubbling up, wanting to cover up the ridiculous fabric, but then Jaime took her hands, pressed them, palms flat, against the door.
“I like it,” he murmured, the words coming against her skin, hot and damp and making her need spiral up and out of control. She barely felt when he lifted one of her feet then the other, tugging off her shoes and chucking them aside because his lips were moving in time with his hands, sliding up, nudging her tank top out of his way. He gripped the arms of her hoodie and that too disappeared, then her shirt was tugged over her head. “Unicorns,” he said, still speaking against her skin, still moving up, only this time he pushed her bra out of the way. “You’re the unicorn, my beautiful, sweet Kate.”
“I’m not—”
The sentence didn’t get a chance to form because then his mouth closed over her nipple.
Her words devolved into a moan. Her hands went to his hair, gripped tight.
Thankfully, Jaime didn’t stop. Instead, he continued drawing on her nipple, shifting so he could take the other between thumb and forefinger, rolling gently at first, then harder until she was moaning, her hips bucking, her pussy clenching because she needed . . . more.
She needed him.
As though she’d spoken aloud, he began sliding his hand down her side, insinuated it between them, between the fabric of her underwear and her shorts, and cupped her.
“No,” she gasped, fingers still tight in his hair.
He growled, nipped the underside of her breast. “No,” he agreed. “Skin.”
“Yes,” she moaned. “Please, Jaime.”
One shove had her panties and shorts around her ankles, another abrupt movement had them tugged off her legs. One more had her thighs spread wide.
His eyes met hers, fire in those pale brown depths, and held for a long moment. Then he dropped his gaze, and she felt the slow slide of his heated stare drift down her neck, caress over her breasts, trace over her stomach, dip lower, and hold.
“So pretty and pink and glistening.”
She choked but didn’t have time to say anything because Jaime was already moving, shifting forward and lifting one of her legs so it was over his shoulder.
And then his mouth was on her.
Or rather, his tongue.
He traced it through her damp folds, sliding over her sensitive labia, until he pressed the flat part to her clit, firm and sure and making sparks flash behind her eyes. Not rushing, but moving slow and steady, his caresses designed to discover exactly what she liked and then using the knowledge ruthlessly.
She’d been turned on from the moment he opened his car door and she saw it was him. She’d been wet from the second his palm had touched her thigh. She’d been on razor’s edge from the instant her nipple was drawn deep into his mouth.
So, it was no surprise that his tongue on her clit, its rhythm perfect, and his finger circling the entrance to her body before pushing slowly inside would catapult her over the edge in mere seconds.
She exploded, pleasure coating her skin from head to toe in wave after wave after wave of pure, unadulterated bliss.
Thus was the power of Jaime.
Thirteen
Jaime
She was asleep in his arms.
Which was so not his plan.
It was also so much better.
She’d come on his fingers, his tongue, crying out his name. He’d never thought he would be the type of guy who would crave a woman saying his name, but Jaime couldn’t deny that hearing it roll off Kate’s tongue was music to his ears.
Then again, anything she seemed to say was music to his ears.
To his soul.
Sappy.
But finding a good woman would do that to a man, especially one as beautiful and wonderful and lovely as Kate.
He’d carried her to the couch, had wrapped them both in a blanket, though he hadn’t needed anything more than her naked body pressed to his in order to be warm, to be scorched through down to the bone.
Her eyes had stayed closed, and she’d cuddled close and . . . he’d lost another piece of himself.
Fingers sliding through her hair, gliding down her arm, taking full advantage of the fact that she was asleep, that she trusted him enough already to have let exhaustion and pleasure take her over while in his arms, to study her closely. She appeared unguarded, and just so damned young.
They were the same age, and when she was conscious, that similarity was obvious, made clear by the shadows present in her eyes, the tension in her frame.
But like this, expression gentled, sleep making the rosebud of her lips shape into a tiny O every time she exhaled, and Jaime thought that she could be much, much younger.
Maybe not in age but in spirit.
Smiling when he thought of what her response would be to that—she’d tease him and his poetry skills, of that he had no doubt—he stayed in place, stroking her hair, watching the sun get a little higher, the sky a bit brighter before she stirred, nuzzling at his throat, her breathing changing from to slow and steady to slightly faster.
Then she froze, ramrod stiff in his arms.
She was awake.
And naked.
Conscious that she might be feeling uncomfortable, he slipped out from beneath the blanket, careful to leave it covering her, then made his way into the hall.
Panties tangled with her shorts, both shoved in the corner.
Bra one way. Her tank top the other.
He gathered them all up and snagged her hoodie, which had somehow ended up on the coatrack, then headed back to her, setting them on the couch next to her.
She was staring out the front windows when he walked in, gaze on the lush greenery that was dotted with purple flowers, jumped when he placed the pile on the cushion beside her thigh.
Her eyes flew to his, a blush crept into her cheeks. “Jaime—”
He ran his knuckles over her cheek. “I’ll go make some coffee.”
“I—” Teeth digging into her bottom lip.
“Coffee first,” he murmured, running his thumb lightly over her skin.
More hesitation then she nodded.
He went back into the hallway, moved to the opening he’d spied on his limited travels, and moved to the Keurig. Opening a couple of cabinets led him to a set of purple glasses lined up neatly next to a stack of purple plates.
Her favorite color is purple.
Remembering her quick recital from the other night had him smiling.
It seemed that her favorite extended to plates and cups. His eyes flicked to the right.
And coffee mugs, he realized, reaching past the tidy rows of purple drinkware to retrieve a pair of lilac ceramic cups, plunked them on the counter, and stuck a mocha pod in the coffee maker, then set the machine to run. Once it was working, he slipped out the front door and retrieved the bag of pastries, pleased to find out there were more than crumbs inside.